


The Keen Fury Of My Heart

by Sokkas_First_Fangirl



Series: Froger Week [4]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Ancient Rome, Angry Roger Taylor (Queen), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Blood, Brian's the moon god, But damn is he good with a bow and arrow, Deacy's the god of crafts, Dehumanization, Developing Relationship, Forced Relationship, Freddie's a human slave, Friends to Lovers, Froger Week, Froger Week 2019, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mary's the queen of the Underworld, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Paul Prenter Being an Asshole, Period Typical Attitudes, Phoebe's a healing god, Protective Roger Taylor (Queen), Rape, Rape Recovery, Rescue, Revenge, Roger is the god of war, Romance, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, True Love, Why?, because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokkas_First_Fangirl/pseuds/Sokkas_First_Fangirl
Summary: As the God of War and Prince of the Gods, a human slave should be beneath Roger's notice. But he's not, and Roger watches with fury and desperation as Freddie continually prays for Roger's help. He's forced to watch as Freddie's prayers slowly stop, as he seems to resign himself to slavery.Breaking his father's orders not to interfere would mean plunging the gods into war.But they were headed that way anyway. So long as he can finally save Freddie, it's worth it.OR: Roger's the god of war; Freddie's a human slave, and damn the consequences, Roger's going to rescue him.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Paul Prenter, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Brian May & Roger Taylor, John Deacon & Roger Taylor, Michael Taylor/Winifred Taylor, Norman Sheffield/Freddie Mercury, Peter "Phoebe" Freestone & Freddie Mercury
Series: Froger Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538959
Comments: 30
Kudos: 122





	The Keen Fury Of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is so far out of my comfort zone, but I'm pretty happy with the end result? Its darker than the rest of my stories (except maybe the DV 'verse), but here we are I guess.  
Nothing gets TOO graphic, but TRIGGER WARNING for: rape, whipping, beatings, forced prostitution. If anyone notices something I should tag/warn about, please tell me ❤
> 
> (Yes, I know the prompt was Ancient Rome and the tags say Ancient Rome, but the opening quote is about Ares, I couldn't find any quotes I liked about Mars 😅)

_ “Restrain also the keen fury of my heart which provokes me to tread the ways of blood-curdling strife.” _ -Homeric Hymn 8 to Ares

  
  
  


As the God of War, as the eldest son of King Michael, God of the Skies, Roger had seen wonders great and small. He’d watched over the Earth for millenia, sometimes in excitement, sometimes in boredom. He’d seen a million beauties, he’d seen a million battles; he’d had his fair share of consorts, and enemies too.

A slave boy should have been below his notice.

But he wasn’t.

Roger first saw him when he accompanied his master, General Paul Prenter, to Roger’s temple in the famed city of Rome. At first glance, Roger would have mistaken him for a noble; he was petite, dark-skinned, with long thick curly black hair, and big brown eyes. _ Sad eyes, _Roger thought. The boy looked like he was only half-awake, just barely aware of what was going on. How old was he? Sixteen? Seventeen perhaps?

He was dressed beautifully, in an unusually long tunic for a man- it reached his ankles, like a woman’s would, and was sleeveless. His belt was golden, there were golden ornaments in his hair, he wore so many rings and bracelets that it dazzled the eyes- but it didn’t distract Roger from the bruises on the boy’s arms. That was when Roger spotted the slave collar, tight on the boy’s neck.

_ Unusual, _he thought. Certainly, he’d seen well-dressed slaves, belonging to high-ranking officials. Usually these slaves were tutors of some kind, but they were never dressed this extravagantly, in eye-catching shades of red, orange and yellow.

Certainly, Roger recognised Prenter. He was a renowned General, and he could often be found praying for victory over his enemies, but it on the battlefield, or in the Senate. Funnily enough, Roger had never taken to him. He might pray, but he never offered the traditional sacrifices. When he won, he never gave thanks. Roger was the god of war, but he liked to think he wasn’t cruel, and the way Prenter treated his enemies (and even some friends) made him feel sick.

He rarely brought slaves to the temple with him. Roger wondered at that, unable to look away from the boy. He wasn’t beautiful in the traditional way, but there was something about him that drew the eyes. What was he _ doing _here?

The question was answered when Prenter looked around, eyes sharp and suspicious. When he saw no one else around, he smirked, and tightly groped the slave’s arse.

“Wait here, Freddie,” he ordered. He let go, only to give the slave- Freddie?- a resounding slap on the rear. “I must go pray.”

He entered the inner chamber, to pray at Roger’s statue. The slave stood where he was, face burning with humiliation. But now that he was alone, Roger saw something in his eyes harden. He looked to the bust of Roger in the nearest alcove, and walked over, something fierce and desperate on his face. He dropped to his knees.

“Help me,” he pleaded. And then, quietly, more fiercely. “Kill him. Free me. _ Anything, _I beg you, just- kill him.”

It wasn’t too unusual a prayer, truth be told. But it was the way Freddie said it, so full of anger, so heedless if anyone heard him, utterly uncaring if it was a sin or not...It grabbed Roger’s attention.

The situation was unusual. Normally, Prenter brought a slave to shield him from the sun, a few to carry his litter, that was all. He’d never seen his slaves dressed like this, nor seen one so angry.

_ A bed slave, _ Roger concluded. _ He has to be. _

The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He turned away, looking towards a battle in the north. He had more important things to worry about; he was the god of war, he shouldn’t be worrying about some mortal slave. He should be worrying about battles, about victories; he should be answering the cries of soldiers, not slaves. He should be worrying about Michael, growing more suspicious by the day, seeing enemies everywhere. He should be planning with his friends, planning to take his rightful place on the throne.

But thoughts of Freddie stayed with him for the rest of the day.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“There’s a slave I want to free,” Roger told Michael bluntly. “He belongs to Paul Prenter. A bed slave, I think.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michael scoffed. “General Prenter’s one of your most devoted followers.”

“When it suits him,” Roger said. “He’s a small loss.”

“To free a _ slave? _Have you lost your senses? Think of how many battles that Prenter’s won in your name; what’s it to you who he beds?” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “No more meddling with mortals directly, you’ve caused enough trouble for me. Slaves don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, Roger, they can’t offer us anything.”

“But-”

“I forbid you to interfere. Understood?”

Roger was silent. Thunder rolled in, the skies darkened, and Michael’s grip on his staff tightened.

_ “Understood?” _he repeated through gritted teeth. Winifred looked at Roger pleadingly, and Roger sighed.

“Understood, Father.”

“Good. Now get back to work.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


But he didn’t. He went and he watched Freddie. Every time the slave accompanied Prenter to the temple, he prayed for Prenter’s demise, for freedom. He’d taken to leaving small offerings; a ring, a flower, a feather.

What could Prenter be doing to the boy? Did he even want to know?

Perhaps not. He felt...Oddly fond of the slave boy. His eyes were sad, but he walked with his head held high, as if daring someone to challenge him. When Prenter wasn’t looking, Freddie threw him looks of pure hatred. He cooed and smiled at the stray cats wandering the temple grounds.

Roger went to Brian.

“I hate this,” he said. Brian, his best friend, the God of the Moon, looked at him curiously.

“It’s been- goodness, I think it’s been centuries since I’ve seen you care about a human personally, Rog,” he said. He sat, frowning, running a finger over his harp. “What’s brought this on?”

“I’m not sure,” Roger admitted. “There’s- there’s something about him. A fire…”

“Getting poetic, are we?” Brian teased with a grin. He sighed. “Oh, Roggie, don’t get me wrong, I hate slavery, it’s apalling. But if you go against Michael’s direct orders, it’ll be all out war and you know it. We’re not ready yet.”

_ “Yet,” _ Roger said. “But we will be soon.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


For the most part, Roger had plenty of distractions. There was always a battle somewhere, there was always conflict. He had no shortage of conquests, on the battlefield and in bed. He and his friends were always working on their plan to overthrow Michael, to take him by surprise; gaining support was tricky. You had to be careful about what gods, what nymphs, what mythical creatures you approached. Any of them could go running to Michael, and ruin their plans.

They _ could, _if they could outrun Deacy’s arrows.

“Nice shot,” Roger said blandly. He nudged the dead nymph, feeling a twinge of guilt. 

“Thanks,” Deacy said. He retrieved the arrow from the dead nymph’s skull, washing the blood off in the stream. “So- Brian tells me you’re pining for a mortal?”

“I’m not _ pining, _” Roger snapped. “I’m just...Concerned.”

“Hm.” Deacy squinted at him, lips in a thin line. “Concerned. Of course. And this has nothing to do with his pretty eyes?”

“I said _ nothing _about his eyes!”

“I looked at him,” Deacy said with a shrug. “He’s quite attractive. And you’re a sucker for a pretty face, Rog.”

“That’s not why I’m worried,” Roger insisted. “It’s Prenter. I know he’s been devoted to me for years, but- oh, Deacy, there’s something _ wrong _with that man. Something...Something dark about his soul.” He half-wondered about calling Mary in to take a look at him; she was Queen of the Underworld, she’d know. 

But that was ridiculous. He was being paranoid.

Wasn’t he?

  
  
  
  
  
  


The weeks and months passed, and one day, Freddie came to the temple with a burst lip, a leash attached to his collar. Prenter’s manner towards him was much colder as he tugged him along, not noticing- or more likely not caring- when Freddie stumbled and gasped for breath when he tugged too hard.

“Wait here,” he commanded coldly, dropping the leash. He entered the inner chamber, and Freddie stayed where he was. The bruises on his arms were darker than ever, there were harsh marks on his neck from where the collar rubbed his skin, and Roger couldn’t look away from his burst lip, from the bruise on his jaw.

Freddie glanced at Roger’s bust, and something in his face crumpled. He didn’t approach it, he didn’t pray. He stayed where he was, just looking at it, not saying a word. He stayed there until Prenter came back, and didn’t protest when Prenter grabbed the leash again, pulling him out of the temple.

That did it. Roger had to know what was going on, he had to see for himself.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Prenter’s villa was beautiful of course. The other slaves were getting the garden ready for a feast, setting out the table, rugs and soft pillows, the plates and goblets, the lanterns. One of them was scattering flowers in the fountain.

Prenter didn’t even glance at them. He pulled Freddie inside, dragging him straight to the bed chamber, where he finally took the leash off.

“Strip,” he commanded. Freddie only looked at him, quietly defiant, and with a growl, Prenter grabbed the slave’s tunic and ripped it open. The tattered tunic fell to the floor, leaving Freddie only in his sandals and jewels, and Roger couldn’t hold back a gasp at the bruises the tunic had been hiding.

The boy was bruised and cut all over; there were recent whip marks on his back, bite marks on his thighs, dark bruises on his legs, hips and stomach, small cuts on his thighs and chest.

But still, even as he flushed red, Freddie met Prenter’s furious gaze. He didn’t cry out until Prenter threw him onto the bed and forced an entry; he gripped Freddie’s hair like a vice, holding him down as he thrust roughly.

“If you _ ever _lay a hand on me again,” he snarled. “It’ll cost you that hand.”

For the first time, Roger noticed a cut on Prenter’s cheekbone. Freddie had _ hit _ him? He’d been right about that fire. That didn’t make this any easier to watch. He should look away, he knew he should look away...Yet he felt like he owed Freddie, that someone should bare witness to his suffering; that someone who cared, someone who wanted to help, should _ know. _

Freddie was mostly quiet, save for pained gasps. Roger fought against the instincts that were howling at him to go to the boy’s rescue; to swoop down there, and snatch him up, steal him away to the heavens where he’d be safe.

It would be open war with Michael, but that was where they were heading anyway, so surely he _ could? _

“Roger?” Suddenly Brian was there, trying to tug him away. “Rog, no, look away. You don’t have to watch this.”

“Yes, I do,” Roger said, because he’d ignored Freddie’s prayers. This boy, with his sad eyes and quiet fierceness, had prayed for help, had _ begged _ Roger for help, and Roger hadn’t done anything. _ He’d let this happen. _ “I’ll watch,” he said, and his voice broke. He felt dangerously close to tears. “And I’ll remember. I’ll remember, and I’ll make Prenter suffer ten-fold.” A thousand-fold. He’d send him to eternal damnation, he’d see him ripped to shreds, he’d have him whipped and beaten and tortured for the rest of eternity. 

_ I’ll save you, I promise. _

“He prayed for my help, Brimi,” Roger said quietly. “He begged me.”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” Brian said, wrapping an arm around him. “Rog, you didn’t know.”

“I knew he was a bed slave,” Roger said. “Why did I try to fool myself? I knew this was happening.” He’d seen cities fall, yet now, _ now, _he wanted to cry.

“Roger…”

“I owe him.” Roger’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “And I _ will _help him.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


To do Brian credit, he stayed with Roger. And Brian, soft-hearted Brian, silently wept as Prenter pulled away. He stroked Freddie’s back gently, as if he hadn’t just viciously attacked him.

“I’ll send the others in to bathe you,” he said. Roger wanted to vomit at how softly he spoke, as if Freddie was his lover. “You need to look your best tonight.” He leaned down to kiss the top of Freddie’s head, and he left.

Freddie didn’t cry. He lay there and his breathing came in harsh gasps; he looked like he was going to cry, but he didn’t. He clutched the sheets tightly, trembling with grief or rage, Roger couldn’t say. Perhaps both; that was certainly what Roger was doing.

Roger didn’t leave though. He stayed when the other slaves came in and helped Freddie up; he stayed as they bathed and dressed him, he stayed as the sun began to set and the feast began.

General Norman Sheffield was returning to the city; the feast was in his honour. He was another mortal that Roger had never taken to. He was too cold, too calculating, too self-serving. His devotion to the gods was only skin-deep; if he ever failed, he blamed the gods, not himself. It was always someone else’s fault.

No wonder he and Prenter got along.

It was a long guest list, only the most important individuals were invited. Many brought their wives, but many didn’t. Ray Foster, a member of the Senate, arrived with his petite wife on his arm, showing her off like a trophy. His smug smile brought Michael to mind. Another member of the Senate, Henry Fitzherbert, one of Sheffield’s closest friends, arrived with five slaves to see to his every whim. John Reid, Bill Reid, Ross Jenkins, and an assortment of others that Roger just barely recognised were all there, dressed in their best.

But his eyes stayed glued to Freddie. They’d dressed him in a much shorter tunic of gold that only had one shoulder strap, sprinkled gold dust on his arms, and outlined his eyes in kohl; he wore a headdress of gold leaves, gold armbands, gold and ruby bracelets, a thin gold anklet, but no shoes. They’d nearly run out of powder, trying to cover the bruises and cuts. To Roger’s fury, it worked; Freddie looked beautiful, and Roger wanted to scream. 

“I hate this,” Brian said quietly, as Sheffield arrived to much fanfare and applause. Two slaves hurried forward to help him from his palanquin, and he immediately approached Prenter with a smile.

“Wonderful to see you, Paul,” he said, clapping Prenter on the back. He looked at Freddie and smirked. “And this must be the slave you wrote about?”

“Freddie,” Prenter said proudly. “I bought him six months ago.”

“I’m sure he was well worth the price,” Sheffield said, looking Freddie up and down.

“That and more,” Prenter said, stroking Freddie’s hair. “You’ll see later.”

Roger growled, gripping his sword. He didn’t stop until Brian took his hand. 

“You don’t have to watch,” his friend said softly.

“Yes,” Roger said. “I do.”

In war, you had to know your enemy.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was somehow as bad as he expected, and worse at the same time. Prenter gave a toast, commending Sheffield’s bravery on the battlefield, congratulating him on his latest victories, and the feast began in full.

Every slave was naked, only wearing their collars, a few still had their sandals on. As they brought each dish to the table, as they poured the wine, they were gawked at, groped, slapped, pinched...Roger took note of the worst offenders, remembering their names and faces, vowing revenge.

One look at the fury on Brian’s face told Roger that he was doing the same.

“And what about this beauty?” Sheffield asked, leering at Freddie, who knelt next to Prenter.

_ Don’t, _ Roger thought. _ Don’t do it. _

“Freddie, stand up,” Prenter commanded. Frowning, sneering at the ground, Freddie did. Prenter stood with him; he untied the knot of the shoulder strap, gave a sharp tug, and the tunic fell to the ground, leaving Freddie only in his jewellery; no marks were visible under the tunic either. The other slaves really had done a good job covering them, and somehow, that only made Roger angrier. Whistles and jeers rang out, and Prenter gave Freddie’s arse a squeeze. He looked _ proud. _

“Best of the best,” he said, sitting down again. 

“Is that so?” Sheffield beckoned Freddie over. “Come here, my dear.” With obvious reluctance, Freddie approached him. Sheffield lounged among the pillows, a goblet of wine in one hand. He ran a hand up Freddie’s leg, smiling. “Aren’t you lovely?” he mused. He took a gulp of wine and set the goblet aside. “Paul’s been telling me all about you.”

“Has he?” Freddie asked blandly. He kept his shoulders back, there was a spark of fury in his eyes. He didn’t use Sheffield’s title, and if Roger hadn’t felt so sick, he would have laughed aloud at Freddie’s cheek, at his defiance.

Thankfully, Sheffield didn’t seem to notice. “Indeed. Very talented, he says.” He tugged Freddie down. “I’m sure you know where I’ve been; fighting off the barbarians up north. They wanted to take the city.”

“Did they?” Freddie almost sounded bored, and Roger, strangely enough, felt proud of him_ . _

“They did,” Sheffield said, still stroking Freddie’s thigh. “My men and I stopped them. I’m sure you’re grateful?”

“Of course.” Freddie glanced at the ground, but Roger saw him roll his eyes. Despite it all, he smiled, even as he felt tears in his eyes.

“Then I know just how you can thank me.” And Sheffield grabbed Freddie’s hair, pulling the boy’s face towards his lap. “Put those lovely lips to use.”

Prenter was _ watching, _eagle-eyed, hungry, and Freddie wasn’t the only slave this was happening too. Soldiers and members of the Senate had other slaves doing the same; one soldier was fucking a slave outright by the trees.

_ Rape, _ Roger thought. _ Call it what it is, face up to it, they’re being raped. _

_ And you allowed this, _ a voice inside whispered. _ You ignored Freddie’s prayers, you could have ended this weeks ago, but you put your precious plan first. You’re meant to look over the humans, but you haven’t done much looking, have you? How can you be King of the Gods, how can you rule the cosmos if you can’t even help one boy? _

“Don’t wear him out,” Prenter called to Sheffield. “The night’s young.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Brian mumbled, finally closing his eyes.

But Roger watched. He watched, and he wept, and he counted. He counted each slave, each guest; he memorised the names and faces of the guests, he counted how many times they abused a slave. And he watched Freddie; he watched as he still kept his head high, he watched as he stayed defiantly quiet, even when he was ordered to speak or show pleasure. He counted the men who used him, and he vowed that there would be blood.

_ Paul Prenter, Norman Sheffield, Ray Foster, Bill Reid, Henry Fitzherbert, Ross Jenkins…All of you. I’ll bathe in your blood, you’ll be torn limb from limb, and your souls will suffer for this. _

The feast lasted well into the night. One slave girl wept as she served the last course, but by then, Roger was out of tears.

Freddie was back by Prenter’s side, kneeling. He stared at the knives; he barely even blinked. Slowly, he edged forward. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached for one.

“Pomegranate, my treasure?” Prenter asked, handing him half.

Freddie gave him a tight-lipped smile. He turned the pomegranate half in his hands, over and over; he squeezed until the juice ran down his arms, eyes still on the knives.

“What are you _ doing? _” Prenter slapped the fruit from his hands, and it was like Freddie had been snapped out of a trance. He blinked, and some light came back into his eyes. He watched the fruit bounce against the ground and frowned, almost like he’d forgotten what was going on. Prenter huffed impatiently, and gestured another slave over with a bowl for Freddie to wash his hands.

“For pity’s sake, are you trying to look like a simpleton?” Prenter hissed.

“I was distracted,” Freddie said. Prenter gave a sharp slap to his leg.

_ “Master,” _ he said sharply. “You’re to address me as _ Master, _or do you need another reminder?” 

“I remember,” Freddie said flatly. As Prenter began to snarl, Freddie added, “Master,” in tones that dripped condensation. Roger knew he’d pay for that, but he still felt proud all the same. 

Freddie should have been weeping. He should have been completely broken down, he should have been curled up in a ball on the floor and pleading for mercy. But instead, he looked Prenter square in the eye; there was fear there, there was utter terror and revulsion, but Freddie still _ smiled _at the bastard.

“You were right,” Brian said.

“About what?” Roger asked.

“About what you said to Deacy. There's something dark about Prenter's soul. And you were right about Freddie. There’s a fire in him.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Where have you been?” Michael demanded.

“Watching the humans,” Roger said. It was the truth.

His father eyed him suspiciously, as he always did. Sometimes, Roger wondered if Michael knew about the plot to overthrow him. Other times, he was sure it was just Michael’s usual paranoia about everything. Shortly after Clare was born, an Oracle had decreed that King Michael would one day lose his throne, to fire, fury and blood, to a fierce heart. But the Oracle had given no age, no date, not even a gender. As such, Michael watched everyone warily, be they god, demi-god, magical or mortal; everyone fell under suspicion.

Well, in this case, his father was right for once. After all, Roger _ was _gathering a secret army.

“Still mooning for that slave?” Michael asked with a sneer.

“No,” Roger said. It was also the truth; he wouldn’t call this mooning anymore.

Michael frowned at him, and turned to Brian.

“Just human watching, Your Majesty,” he said. His eyes were still red-rimmed, he was too pale, his hair was a mess from tugging on it. Roger wondered if he was in a similar state. If so, no wonder Michael was frowning like that.

But his father left them alone.

For now.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Roger’s plans for the coordinated attack fell apart the very next week.

He’d been watching Freddie non-stop. The slave didn’t pray to him anymore. He was forced to accompany Prenter everywhere, and when Prenter inevitably arrived at the temple, Freddie only stared at Roger’s bust, or the floor, and didn’t say a word.

It hurt. He’d let Freddie down.

How many people, exactly, had he let down? How many prayers had he simply ignored over the years? How many people desperately needed his help, how many turned to him as a last resort?

_ I’ll do better, _ he vowed. _ I’ll do better from now on. _

He watched Freddie endure Prenter’s abuse; he watched him fuss over the child slaves in the villa, he watched him sneak milk and food to stray cats.

And, eventually, he heard him sing.

Prenter was out, visiting Sheffield. For once, he’d left Freddie behind, and Freddie sat on the edge of the fountain, lightly singing a wordless tune, looking at the sky. Every slave that passed him stopped to listen. Roger couldn’t blame them; he didn’t feel like he could move. He’d never heard singing like that; he’d heard gods sing, nymphs sing, he’d heard sirens...And suddenly, they all paled in comparison to Freddie.

But then Prenter came back, clearly in a bad mood. He stalked right up to Freddie and grabbed him roughly by the arm.

“Come on,” he snarled, dragging him inside.

Freddie was clearly terrified, it was plain on his face, but he pressed his lips together and tried to steady his breathing.

Already, Roger could feel his blood boiling. 

The second Prenter slammed the bedroom door shut, he pounced. He ripped Freddie’s clothes off, literally ripping them to shreds, and pushed him onto the bed. 

As soon as the whip came down on Freddie’s back, as soon as Freddie screamed, Roger snapped.

With his infamous battle cry, in a flash of light, Roger went down to Earth.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He appeared in Prenter’s chambers in seconds; he thrust his hand out and the whip was sent flying across the room.

“What the _ fuck-? _” Prenter stopped dead, pale as a corpse. 

Roger stood there, glowing in his battle armour, with his winged helmet on his head, his sword in his hand, and his golden whip attached to his belt.

Freddie shakily pushed himself up, hastily covering himself with the bedsheet.

_ “Roger?” _ he gasped.

“Sorry I took so long,” Roger said. Before Prenter could even _ look _at the door, Roger pounced: in one swift move, he was across the room, and he thrust his sword straight into Prenter’s heart.

The bastard choked and coughed as he died, blood soaking through his tunic, blood dribbling down his chin, and it wasn’t enough, not yet. He hadn’t _ suffered _ yet.

Roger pulled the sword out and Prenter collapsed in a heap. On the sword’s tip, glowing and shivering, was Prenter’s soul.

He looked at Freddie; the slave boy was trembling, and he scrambled backwards at Roger’s approach. His mouth opened-

“Don’t scream,” Roger pleaded. “Freddie, I- I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

Freddie didn’t scream. He pulled the bedsheet up over his shoulder, like a toga, and looked at Roger with a mix of awe and terror. He didn’t say a word, he kept trembling.

“Mary!” Roger called, and the Queen of the Underworld walked out of the shadows in her black robes and flower-crown.

Freddie gave a strangled gasp, but Mary only had eyes for the soul on Roger’s sword.

“Is that for me?” she asked.

“Yes. The plan’s changed. We’ll have to attack today.”

Mary nodded, cupping the soul in her hands.

“I’ll be back for him,” Roger told her.

“That’s fine,” she said. She glared at the soul with pure disgust. “Whatever punishment you want, I’ll arrange it.” She smiled at Freddie as if they were old friends, patted Roger’s shoulder, and disappeared back into the shadows.

“I’ve gone mad,” Freddie mumbled. “This is it, I’ve cracked.”

“No, but I might have,” Roger said. He held his hand out. “You can’t stay here, they’ll think you did it.”

Freddie looked at the corpse and shuddered, but he didn’t take Roger’s hand.

“I’m sorry I took so long to answer you,” Roger said gently. “I truly am. You deserve better.”

At that, Freddie finally looked him in the eye. He took Roger’s hand.

They disappeared in another flash of light.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Just like that, they were in Roger’s domain, his own palace. He had an arm around Freddie’s shoulders, keeping the shaking mortal upright.

“Phoebe!” Roger shouted, guiding Freddie to the nearest couch. One touch and the slave collar opened; Roger took it and threw it across the room, as hard as he could. He wanted to burn it to ash, he wanted to force it down Prenter’s throat down in the Underworld, but all that would have to wait. “Phoebe, I need you!”

Phoebe came running, his robes billowing. He stopped dead when he saw Freddie, his mouth hanging open.

“Roger, what did you do?” he demanded.

“Broke some rules,” Roger said impatiently. “Just _ heal him, _please.”

Phoebe didn’t ask any further questions; he just nodded and came over, kneeling in front of Freddie.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed softly. “Poor thing, look at you.” Freddie flinched back from his touch, but at Phoebe’s gentle smile, he relaxed somewhat. When Phoebe reached for him again, he let the minor healing god touch him; one touch, one caress, and the bruises on Freddie’s arms disappeared. Freddie only stared in shock, blinking rapidly and shaking his head.

“I’ve gone insane,” he repeated.

“Not at all,” Phoebe said. He went to Freddie’s back and healed the whip mark. “Welcome to the heavens, sweetheart.”

“But the dead go to the Underworld,” Freddie said blankly.

“You’re not dead either,” Phoebe said cheerfully. “Far from it. Can I get a look at your legs, love?”

“How did you-?” Freddie stopped and sighed, reluctantly letting the bedsheet drop. “Right, you’re...You’re Phoebe…”

“And you’re Roger’s human, if I assume correct.” 

“_ Roger’s _human?” Freddie turned to Roger sharply.

“I...Er…” Roger couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so flustered. When he first met Dominique, probably. He felt rooted to the spot by Freddie’s dark eyes.

“I asked you for help months ago,” Freddie whispered, as Phoebe continued to heal him.

“I know,” Roger said. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so ashamed either. Maybe never.

That was when the sky turned black and the thunder started.

Brian and Deacy ran in.

“Rog,” Deacy gasped. “Your father…”

“I know.” Roger glanced at Freddie; he was tiny, he was _ human, _and Roger was loathe to leave him now, but he had to. “Pheebs, look after him. Find him something to wear, some food or drink, whatever he wants.” He knelt down and took Freddie’s hand. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

“Where are you going?” Freddie asked, eyes wide. There was a lightning strike, a clash of thunder, and they all winced. 

“I’m going to claim my crown.” Before he could stop himself, Roger kissed Freddie’s forehead. “You just stay safe for now. Phoebe will look after you.” He stood to go, but Freddie grabbed his hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

Roger smiled, squeezed his hand tightly, and went into battle.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The battle lasted two days, and all the while storms raged. Parts of Roger’s army arrived late, having not received word as soon as it started. As the first day drew to a close, it looked like Michael was going to win.

Then the reinforcements arrived. The demi-gods, the minor gods, the creatures, all those that Michael scorned and abused, flocking to Roger’s banner.

In the end, Roger stormed into the throne room, already drenched in blood, fury radiating from him.

Michael called him a traitor. Roger pointed out that there was nothing to betray in the first place. You needed trust to betray, and there’d never been any between them.

It took all three of them, Roger, Brian and Deacy, to kill Michael in the end; Roger with his sword, Deacy with his arrows and Brian with his beams of ice cold light.

As the second day ended, Roger walked out onto the palace steps, drenched in blood, exhausted, with the crown on his head. In one hand, he had his sword. In the other hand, he had Michael’s staff. 

“Who’s dead?” he asked Mary.

“Many,” she said bluntly. “But we always knew that would happen.” She sighed tiredly. “As for members of the pantheon on your father’s side, we’ve lost Lucas and Devin.” The god of the sun and the goddess of the harvest. He’d have to replace them soon, or they’d have chaos all over again.

The sun…

That gave him an idea.

  
  
  
  
  
  


When he returned to his abode (his _ old _abode now), he and his boys found Freddie and Phoebe asleep in Phoebe’s bed. They were both on top of the plush covers; Phoebe was curled around the human boy protectively, and Roger was struck by just how small Freddie was.

But he was a lot stronger than he looked.

“Phoebe? Freddie?” Roger gently shook them awake.

“Rog!” Phoebe instantly shot up, startling Freddie awake. “Oh, thank goodness!” Phoebe threw his arms around him, hugging him so tightly that Roger sputtered for breath. 

“We won,” Deacy said unnecessarily. He raised his bow as if to emphasise the point.

In the midst of it all, was Freddie. Phoebe had found him a pale green tunic, one of Roger’s old ones; it kept slipping off his shoulders, and he looked no less overwhelmed than he had before.

Cautiously, Roger sat next to him. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I...I don’t know,” Freddie admitted. He let out a hysterical little laugh. “I- I’m actually in the heavens. I’m not dead. Phoebe says you were off fighting your father for the bloody throne the last two days. I’m sitting with a group of gods. Paul’s dead. I…” He drooped, wringing his hands. “I’m tired.” He looked at Roger warily, almost suspiciously. “And you- why did you help me now?”

“Because I should have from the start,” Roger said honestly. When he took Freddie’s hand, Freddie didn’t flinch away. “I want to do better.”

Freddie still looked suspicious, and somehow it didn’t surprise Roger that Freddie had the nerve to look suspicious of a god.

“We all want to do better,” Brian added quietly. There was a nasty gash healing on his forehead.

Roger held onto Freddie’s hand, holding his gaze.

“I promise,” he said. “I’ll do better.”

Slowly, Freddie nodded.

It was enough for now.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was chaos, trying to bring balance. Phoebe took Devin’s place, and Roger knew who he _ wanted _to replace Lucas, but was it really the wise choice? And did he dare ask?

However, there were some problems that were easily sorted.

_ Norman Sheffield, Ray Foster, Bill Reid, _ he reminded himself. _ Henry Fitzherbert, Ross Jenkins. _

He killed them all on the same day. He appeared in their homes in a flash of fury and killed them before they even had time to scream, sending them to Mary. He hunted down the other guests from Prenter’s banquet and killed them too; he’d made his list, he’d made his promise. He remembered their names, their faces and just what they did.

Roger had no time for mercy, not when it came to these monsters. He’d see them get what they deserved.

Starting with Prenter.

“Do you want to come with me?” Roger asked Freddie. They were in Freddie’s chambers in the palace; Freddie sat on the window seat, his knees pulled up to his chest, his purple tunic trailed to the floor.

“To the Underworld?” he asked doubtfully.

“To see justice done.”

“I thought it already was, Roger?”

“Not quite.”

Freddie frowned, considering. After a moment, he nodded, and took Roger’s hand.

Mary wasn’t at all surprised to see them.

“I thought you’d be here sooner,” she said. She smiled at Freddie approvingly. “You look much better.” She waved them along, not waiting for a response. “This way.”

She led them further and further down. Freddie shuddered, pressing closer to Roger as the screams started. Finally, they ended up in front of a cell, embedded in the black stone wall.

Inside, chained up, naked and bloodied, was Prenter.

Freddie flinched back, hands over his mouth. “What did you do?” he asked.

“What he did to you,” Mary said. “I had him whipped.”

It wasn’t enough if you asked Roger. But it seemed that Mary wasn’t done.

“I also make him relive everything from your point of view,” she added cheerfully, adjusting her flower crown. “Is it not enough? I can do more.”

“It’s enough,” Freddie said weakly. Roger wondered at him, he really did. How could he not want more? How could he not want to whip the bastard himself? How could he not want him devoured by demons, or scourged until there was no skin left, or...Well, anything else? How could he look at Prenter with _ pity? _

Find him a creature that deserved Freddie and he’d hand them his crown. Surely no such creature existed? Who in the whole world deserved Freddie?

Freddie looked away from Prenter and took Roger’s arm.

“I want to go,” he said clearly. “Now.”

Roger nodded to Mary, and just like that, they were gone.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Another week passed. Slowly but surely, Freddie relaxed. He opened up. He started to smile. One day, Roger walked into Freddie’s chambers to find him singing, loud and clear.

“It’s beautiful,” Roger said. “Your voice, I mean.” _ And you. All of you. _

Freddie smiled at him shyly, ducking his head. The sun was setting earlier and earlier; everyone was pressing him to make a decision, and...Well. Freddie could always turn him down.

“Freddie, I…” He felt so damnably flustered, blushing whenever Freddie looked at him. He sat on the couch by the bed. “Listen, I- I want you to stay here. You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to, but...Well, I’d be honoured if you did. We all...We care about you deeply. If you want to go back to Earth, I can arrange that. I can give you your own house, land, money, whatever you want...If that _ is _ what you want. But if you want to stay here, I...” Damn it all, he could feel himself blushing again. He was meant to be the promiscuous god of war, winning battles and having sex right after them; nothing was meant to phase him. But this human boy did. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Freddie’s smile widened; he climbed off the window seat and came to sit next to him.

“I’m happy here, darling,” he said, and Roger swore his heart skipped a beat. It was one more thing that flustered him- how Freddie had started to call him _ darling. _

“One more question.” He held onto Freddie’s hands. He was the King of the Gods, and he hardly dared to look at Freddie now; he focused on their clasped hands instead. “I need a new sun god. I think you’d suit the role.”

_ “Me?” _ Freddie’s voice was sharp with shock, and when Roger looked at him, he seemed totally baffled by the concept. “But I- darling, I’m _ human. _ I was a _ slave, _I couldn’t…”

“You could,” Roger said with certainty. “You...You’re braver than you give yourself credit for. You’re the bravest, kindest, brightest person I know. There’s a fire in you that not even Prenter could put out.”

Freddie was silent. Roger dared to stroke his hair back, his hand lingering for a moment on Freddie’s cheek.

“It’s not an order,” he said gently. “It’s just an offer. You don’t have to.”

To his surprise, Freddie leaned into the touch. “Can I think about?” he asked.

“Of course, Fred.”

He expected Freddie to take a day, maybe a few days, to consider. To his further surprise, he had his answer by dinner; Freddie marched in, smiled at him, and said _ yes. _

  
  
  
  
  
  


This is what the mortals say, of King Roger, God of War, God of the Skies. They say he began his battle against King Michael, for love of a human; a mere slave, a whore. They say Roger came to earth in a blaze of fury, and whisked Freddie into the heavens, coated in the blood of his former Master.

They say the slave was beautiful enough to drive even the gods mad with lust, with love. They say his voice put the sirens to shame. They say his beauty rivalled the sun.

They tell legends of Roger winning against all odds; returning to his mortal lover victorious; they say he took the crown, all to keep this human boy safe. _ An epic romance, _ some say. _ Foolhardy, _others say. They say that Roger elevated him to the status of a god that very night, that they wed the next day.

It’s not _ quite _true, not the way they tell it, but what legend is ever wholly accurate? 

Here’s how it really happened: Roger did indeed elevate Freddie to the status of a god. The new sun god, with his sweet smile and shy eyes, dressed in gorgeous yellow robes, with golden sandals and jewellery. They did indeed marry, but not for five years.

All the heavens knew their King was in love with Freddie. They were all certain that Freddie loved him back, but was held back by his experiences on Earth. They whispered that he was traumatised, scarred...Truth to tell, they weren’t wrong.

Freddie lounged on his bed, mulling it all over. He’d been a god for a year now, and he wasn’t stupid, he knew himself well; he knew how he felt, he knew what he wanted, but for all Roger’s fair words, he wasn’t sure he had the bravery to do anything about it.

He could imagine kissing Roger just fine (and frequently did); hand-holding, cuddling, they’d already done that. Just platonically. Or so they insisted. But sex? The thought made him cringe, it brought everything rushing back, and he didn’t see how he ever could. Paul was the worst master he’d ever had, but he wasn’t the _ only _master he’d ever had.

_ Roger could do better, _he told himself.

When he confided those fears to Phoebe, his friend looked ready to cry, but he still smiled.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he said. “Roger loves you.”

“But…”

“He hasn’t slept with anyone since he...Well, since he first saw you hurt,” Phoebe said. “He hasn’t even flirted with anyone else since he brought you here. Freddie, love, if it’s sex you’re worried about, I really think he’d give it up for you.”

Freddie wasn’t so sure. He sat in his chambers, Delilah on his lap, and worried until it felt like his head would burst. 

On one hand, it was Roger; their king, the god of war, with the fearsome temper and iron-clad will. On the other hand...It was _ Roger, _Roggie, who saved him, who went bright red when Freddie smiled at him, who gave him Delilah as a birthday present.

Freddie trusted him more than anyone.

Gritting his teeth, Freddie went to look for him.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Freddie found him in the garden, lounging in the sun. Smirking, Freddie directed more rays his way, and Roger stretched like a cat, humming happily.

“Hi, Fred,” he called, eyes still closed.

Freddie sat down next to him, and for a moment, he just watched. Roger was so handsome that sometimes it felt a little ridiculous. No matter what he was doing he seemed graceful and beautiful. Strong.

“Darling.”

“Yeah, Freddie?” His eyes were still closed, he was half-dozing.

And Freddie said it. “I love you.” And he closed his eyes, holding his breath, preparing himself for the worst.

There was some rustling as Roger sat up. Gently, his hands cupped Freddie’s face.

Freddie opened his eyes. Roger was beaming at him, eyes bright, literally _ glowing _with happiness.

“I love you too,” he said.

Freddie kissed him; Roger made a surprised little noise, but quickly pulled Freddie onto his lap, and Freddie clung to him. He almost felt a little dizzy, he certainly felt breathless, and Roger _ loved him. _The sun shone brighter and brighter, Freddie could feel himself beginning to glow, and he just clung to Roger tighter, only pulling back when he desperately needed air.

“I love you,” Roger repeated, breathless. “Fuck, I love you.”

Grinning, Freddie kissed him again.

(They stayed like that until Winifred found them.)

  
  
  
  
  
  


Despite what the legends say, they didn’t rush straight into things. They took their time. Roger, usually so confident, second-guessed his every move, terrified of scaring Freddie, or hurting him. He could face enemies on a battlefield without blinking, but the thought of frightening Freddie terrified him in turn.

The first time they tried to sleep together, Freddie flat out panicked. They took a step back then, easing into it, starting slow. It was Roger’s idea to focus on Freddie first.

“You’re beautiful,” Roger breathed against Freddie’s thigh. “Perfect. Amazing.” He kissed up and up. “You’re the strongest person I know.” Before Freddie could protest that that was a lie, Roger’s mouth was on him, and all protests ceased.

“Are you alright?” Roger asked afterwards. Freddie nodded, blinking dazedly. 

“Well,” he gasped. “That’s new.” Just like that, he was laughing, though Roger wasn’t sure _ what _he was laughing about at all. Maybe Freddie wasn’t even sure.

They took it slow, but they were fine. Roger ruled the cosmos, Freddie directed the sun’s rays. Roger did his best to live up to his promise, and watch the humans more closely. Freddie watched when he didn’t. Roger went into battle, Freddie fumed when Roger refused to let him go too. A certain phrase (courtesy of Deacy) became popular among the gods and goddesses, eventually making its way to the humans: “Roger rules the heavens, but Freddie rules Roger.” Certainly, Roger was awful at denying him anything he wanted, no matter how outlandish the request. The only thing he really refused to allow, was for Freddie to go into battle too.

(That certainly became the source of a lot of legends; that certain natural disasters were really caused by the two of them arguing over Freddie’s safety.)

The legends say they were married within a day, but in actual fact it took five years. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun shone brightly, staying up longer than it should have that time of year. For once, there was no strife, no conflict. 

There weren’t many dry eyes either; Winifred cried (and flowers grew where her tears landed), Phoebe outright sobbed; Brian did his best to pretend he wasn’t crying, and fooled no one. Veronica and Anita dabbed daintily at their eyes, smiling all the while.

Freddie and Roger barely noticed. They only looked at each other, glowing, hands clasped. 

“I love you,” Roger told him.

Freddie’s smile was cheeky, his eyes glittering with the mischief Roger had come to know so well. So far removed from that frightened, angry slave he’d first seen. The sun god. Now Queen of the Gods.

“I know, darling,” Freddie said. He tilted his head, the gold ornaments in his hair swaying. “I love you too.”

They kissed as the sun finally began to set.

**Author's Note:**

> So...Voila, I guess? I dunno, I tried, and I'm pretty happy. I wanted to try a new style/tone for this one, but ooh boy, did it take a while. Next time, I'm sticking with the good old Pluto and Proserpina trope 🙃
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! 💕


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